So
by Aurora West
Summary: Oliver Wood is a nutball antisocial. Friends? He's got his team. But when somebody who doesn't even like Quidditch talks to him, he finds out that this friend thing isn't so bad. Pity he can't figure out how to keep her. Complete!
1. Default Chapter

"Wood! Wood, you stupid git, slow down!" 

Oliver Wood hunched his shoulders and tightened his hold on his books as he hurried down the hall. He knew who was behind him, and he wasn't going to stop, not even if she threw herself around his legs and refused to let go. If she knew him at all, she'd give up and go away. 

"Oliver!" 

Apparently she didn't know him, then. He felt someone catch his arm and hold it in a vice-like grip. "Let go, Angelina. I have to get to class." 

She whirled him towards her with surprising strength and slapped him hard across the face. "What is your problem, Wood?" she demanded, giving him what was possibly the most baleful look anyone had ever directed at him. 

He met her eyes for a moment, decided not to comment on the slap, and flicked his gaze to a point several inches beyond her face, which was much easier to look at. "Like I said," he began tonelessly, "I have to get to class." 

"Shutup! I asked you a question!" 

Oliver supposed it should have embarrassed him that a second-year girl was bullying him, but it would have been pointless, and besides, his cheek still hurt. "I don't know what you want from me, Angelina. Do you want me to say I'm sorry? Fine. Okay. I'm sorry." 

She made an exasperated noise. "No, I don't want you to say you're sorry! _You're_ the only one who thinks you have something to apologize for! Fred's up in the hospital wing. Why don't you go and visit him, you bloody idiot?" 

Attempting to pull his arm away from her, he muttered, "I can't." 

Angelina Johnson rolled her eyes, her anger fading somewhat. "Why not?" 

"Because," he mumbled, "it's my fault." 

"Oh, god." The girl dropped her arms to her sides and stared at the ceiling in exasperation. "Oliver, do you have any idea how stupid and self-centered you are?" 

He shot a sharp look at her. "What?" This was not quite what he'd expected. Screaming, yes. Violence, apparently so. But controlled critiquing of his character? 

"Do you honestly think that you're responsible for that Keeper lobbing the Quaffle at Fred?" 

"You're forgetting the Beater who did the same thing." 

"That wasn't your fault either!" 

Oliver finally succeeded in yanking his arm away from her. "You realize you're not doing any good? Please just let me go to class. It's Potions. Snape's going to love it. Not only did the Slytherins take out my Beater, but I'm late." 

"I'll walk you to class." 

"I don't want to talk!" 

"Too bad." 

As he began to walk away, Angelina sighed and ran to catch up with him. "Oliver, you locked yourself in your dormitory all weekend. No one's seen you since the match on Saturday. We were all beginning to think you were dead. What's the problem? I'm not going to let you hole yourself up again." 

"You have trouble taking a hint, don't you? _I don't want to talk_." 

The harshness of his tone didn't shake her. "You cute quiet boys are all the same." 

"What did you just call me?" 

She elbowed him. "Don't be daft. And don't interrupt me. You're all stupid and stubborn and you think everything revolves around you." 

"I don't see how feeling responsible for something makes me self-centered." 

"Because it's all about you being in control!" 

By the time she said this, they'd reached the dungeon. Oliver put his hand on the door handle, looked down at her, and hissed, "Look, Angelina, I like you a lot, so don't take this the wrong way. But. Get out of my face. Leave me alone. I don't want to talk to you. And do _not_ send anyone else to harass me!" 

Angelina glared at him, turned around, and—there was no other word for it—flounced off. Oliver stared after her and listened to her receding footsteps, then shook his head and sighed. None of his friends would understand what he was feeling right now. They'd say the same things Angelina had—with an emphasis on the "stupid", he was sure. They just…didn't get it. He had a responsibility, and… 

With another sigh, he turned the handle of the door and walked into the dungeon. 

Everyone in class looked up at him, Slytherins and Gryffindors alike. "Um," Oliver said. He cleared his throat. "Sorry I'm late, Professor Snape. I…it was…" 

Snape gave him a cold stare. "Yes, Mr. Wood?" 

"Er. Nothing." 

"Perhaps you felt that Saturday's Quidditch match gives you license to come and go to class as you please, Mr. Wood? Should you be allowed to waltz in ten minutes late because everyone pities you so? Five points from Gryffindor. Sit down." 

Oliver stared at the ground, ignoring the scattered titters from the Slytherins. A boy with blond hair caught his eye and smiled maliciously, miming a throwing motion. Oliver forced himself to ignore this too. Marcus Flint was captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. He had also been bothering Oliver all day at every chance he got. Oliver rarely got angry enough to be really cruel to anyone, but Flint was quickly pushing him to his limit. 

Quickly, he sat down next to a Slytherin girl. As Snape continued with the lesson, he poked her and whispered, "What are we doing?" 

"Ruddy good stuff," she muttered out of the corner of her mouth. She glanced at him, her eyes twinkling a little. "We're starting antidotes—you can copy my notes." 

Snape droned on for another hour, finishing the lesson with the announcement, "Next time you will be brewing your antidotes. At the end of class, one of you will be poisoned in order to test whether or not you paid attention." 

"Wonderful," Oliver mumbled. 

"Yeah," the girl next to him agreed. "I'm sure we'll all look forward to that. By the way, my name's Samantha North. Sam, that is." 

He turned to face her. "Sam. Hello. Thanks for letting me look at your notes. I'm—" 

"Oliver Wood." She grinned at him. "I know. Everyone in school does." 

"I bet. And they all say glowing things about me, eh?" 

"Actually, you'd be surprised." She glanced up at Snape, who was watching them hawkishly. "C'mon, let's go. If you stay much longer Snape's going to chew you out some more." 

"Good idea." 

As they walked out the door, someone crashed into Oliver from behind. "Oh, sorry, Wood." Marcus Flint—what a surprise that was. He sneered at Oliver, then nodded at Samantha. "Hey, Sam. What are you doing?" 

"Talking to Oliver." 

Flint raised his eyebrows. "Why? Wood, shouldn't you be nursing Weasley back to health?" 

"Yeah, Flint, I suppose," Oliver said in a monotone. 

"So will Weasley be playing at the next match? I'd hate to think that my team is the reason that you have to look for a new Beater…" 

"Yeah, Flint. I bet you would." 

"What's the matter, Wood? You're even less talkative than usual." Flint grinned nastily. "Something bothering you?" 

Oliver tensed and started to turn towards the other boy, but Sam placed herself between them and said, "Marcus? I think this is a bad time to be taunting Oliver incessantly." She gave the other Slytherin a meaningful look. "How about I meet you up in the common room, okay?" 

Flint stared at her, then turned his eyes darkly to Oliver. "Sure," he told Sam. "Don't be too long." 

He stalked away, glancing over his shoulder occasionally. Oliver set off in the opposite direction, muttering, "What a jerk." 

"He's really not," Sam said, catching up with him. "He just…has trouble with people." Giving him a look out of the corner of her eyes, she added, "You two seem to be alike in a lot of ways." 

Oliver snorted. "Hardly." 

"Hm. Well, I know what I see." 

"You just met me an hour ago." Oliver looked at her and quirked an eyebrow. "Why are you talking to me suddenly, anyway? Nobody else really does." 

"Ah, no. Not exactly. You don't really _let_ people talk to you. Trust me, they would if they could." She watched him for a moment. "Where are you going, anyway?" 

"Hospital wing," he answered shortly. 

"Oh…" Sam looked away somewhat guiltily. "I'm really sorry about that…" 

"Don't be. It has nothing to do with you. You weren't playing." He stared straight ahead as he said this, aware of how bitter and angry it had sounded. 

"Well." Sam stopped walking and Oliver, surprised, did as well. She stuck out her hand and grasped his, shaking it. "It's been nice talking to you, Oliver. I'll see you in Potions. Bye." 

Not bothering to watch her depart, Oliver continued towards the hospital wing. However, he was pondering what she'd said—that he didn't let people talk to him. He supposed he wasn't the easiest person to get to know—always practicing Quidditch, or planning tactics for the next match, or just flying around the grounds on his Cleansweep Seven. He did like to be alone, which was probably why he loved to be in the air. But liking solitude certainly didn't make him cold and unreachable. Or did it? Apparently he came off that way. His closest friends were the people he was forced to spend time with—the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Though perhaps that had changed. Angelina certainly appeared to hate his guts. 

Thinking about the team practically made him stop in his tracks. Really, the last place he wanted to go was the hospital wing. Oliver wasn't even sure he could face Fred. Maybe no one else thought it was his fault, but it was _his_ team. He was captain. And Fred had been doing what Oliver had told him to do. Then there was the fact that it was only the second game of the season—Fred's second game ever, only Oliver's second as captain. And like anyone with newly given authority, he'd been eager to prove himself. Having your new beater get seriously injured at the beginning of the season was not a mark in your favor. He'd felt only two things since the match on Saturday—incompetent and dangerously irresponsible. It had chilled him to the bone to see Fred falling from his broomstick. And of course he hadn't done anything to help. So what if he couldn't do anything—he hadn't even tried. 

Gryffindor had just scored for the fifth time—Angelina again, she was good; and Fred had been trailing her with his club ready. He'd hit a bludger at the Slytherin Chaser who could have taken the quaffle from Angelina, and the Keeper, not appreciating this, had flung the ball at him. Unfortunately, the Slytherin Beater had gotten the same idea, and both balls had crashed into Fred at about the same time. He'd been knocked unconscious, plummeted to the ground, and broken several ribs, his arm; and fractured his leg. Of course they'd lost. Miserably. Again. 

Oliver halted outside the hospital wing. How was he going to look Fred in the eye? 

The door opened suddenly, and Oliver jumped. Alicia Spinnet, another of Gryffindor's Chasers, walked out. She looked surprised to see him there and said, "Oliver, I thought you didn't want to come up here." 

"I didn't. Still don't." 

She blushed at the somber look that he turned on her. "Er…well, he's okay, you know. He asked why you haven't come up." 

"What did you tell him?" 

"Er…Angelina told him something. I can't remember what. Are you going to talk to him?" 

Oliver shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know. I guess. If you move so I can get through." He offered her a tiny smile, and Alicia stepped out of the way with a giggle. As he walked into the hospital, he supposed that was the other part of Sam's comment—people would talk to him if they could. Alicia did tend to act like a smitten teenage girl around him. Well, she was a teenage girl, and now that he thought about it, she probably was smitten, too. She had all the annoying traits. He wished she'd direct them towards someone else besides him. 

Madam Pomfrey pointed out where Fred's bed was and Oliver trudged towards it. Not that he needed to be showed—there were so many cards and presents that he thought everyone in school must have sent something. Except for him. He couldn't even remember the reason he hadn't, only that at the time it had seemed like a good one. 

George Weasley, Fred's twin, was sitting by the bed, but when he noticed Oliver, he grinned and murmured something to his brother. Fred propped himself up with his uninjured arm and said in mock awe, "Oliver! To what do I owe this great honor?" 

"Angelina beat him up," George postulated. 

"Wouldn't be surprised. She was up here with some story about bashing your head against the wall, Oliver." Fred smiled sweetly. "I told her, 'No way could you even scratch Wood, he's so big and tough. He doesn't take crap from anybody'." 

"Shutup, Weasley," Oliver groaned. 

"I'm hurt." 

"Yeah?" Oliver shuffled over to an empty chair and sat down. "How are you feeling, then?" 

Fred and George exchanged a look. "Are you attempting to make small talk, Oliver?" the latter questioned. 

"You're not very good at it," Fred added. 

"No, I'm asking you because I'm concerned." 

Fred rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "You're so serious. Look, I'm fine." He held up his other arm and moved it around a bit. "I'm mainly still in here because I had an essay due in History of Magic which was too bloody boring to write." He paused and thought for a second. "Plus, the longer I stay in here, the more presents I get." 

"You're not in pain or anything?" 

Fred raised his eyebrows. "You really are worried, aren't you?" 

"We didn't really believe Angelina," George told Oliver. "She was saying how you were blaming yourself or some crazy thing like that." 

When Oliver didn't say anything coherent (he stuttered a few syllables), Fred offered, "She tacked on a couple adjectives to your name. I don't know, what was her favorite one, George?" 

"Oliver the bloody selfish moron? Something like that. I'm sure she meant it with the utmost affection." 

Fred picked up a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans and offered them to Oliver. "Don't beat yourself up about it, Wood. Oh, did I just pun?" 

"I hope not," George remarked. 

"It's not as if you were throwing balls at me," Fred continued. "Basically what it comes down to is that I wasn't paying attention." 

George nodded. "Yeah, he was too busy staring dreamily at Angelina." 

"Exactly! You don't see George crying about how it's his fault, and he's supposed to be keeping the bludgers away from me." 

"You have a club, too," his twin said. 

"I'm just illustrating to Oliver that logically speaking—I know that's a foreign concept to him—he couldn't have helped. It even would've been pretty hard for him to throw himself in front of me to protect me. He was on the other side of the field, after all." 

Oliver looked Fred in the face for the first time. "I don't think you two quite understand how I think." 

"And we're glad for that." 

The older boy shook his head, though a smile was creeping onto his face against his will. "Aye, you must be all right. You're as obnoxious as always." 

With a gasp, Fred exclaimed, "How could you say such a thing? Obnoxious? The Weasley twins? Why, we're like angels." 

"Who told you that?" 

"We do," George said. 

"Every day." 

"It's the only way we can live with ourselves," he sighed. 

"Oliver," Fred said suddenly, "you still look subdued and mildly suicidal." 

Shrugging, he replied, "I guess it helps hearing both of you tell me what everyone else has." 

"But you _still_ think it's your fault." 

Oliver didn't answer. Instead, he questioned, "Has anyone come in here to bother you?" 

"You mean Slytherins?" Fred asked sagely. 

"Well…yes." 

"A couple. Didn't come up to be nasty though. They were perfectly nice." Fred grinned. "Don't worry; I don't think Flint's going to come up here and smother me with my pillow to make sure I don't play at the next match." 

"I have a feeling you're mocking me." 

"No," Fred gasped. "I would never mock someone I respect as much as you." 

"Bugger off, Weasley." 

"Ouch. I thought you felt terrible for landing me up here." 

"I thought _you_ said it wasn't my fault." 

"Me and everyone else." 

"Then what's your point?" 

Fred shook his head melodramatically. "Wood, how about you go play some Quidditch by yourself. Obviously you're feeling a bit too nasty to be talking to an invalid." 

"What do you expect from someone who's spent the weekend locked in his dormitory?" George threw in. 

At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustled over. "All right, that's enough talking. He needs his rest. Out, out! You too, George." 

George gaped at her, then shrugged at his brother. "Guess I'll see you later." 

"Yeah. Come back soon. It's boring and lonely up here," Fred replied with a fake whimper. "That means you too, Oliver. If I hear about any guilt trip you're still on, I'm going to pick out all the tripe-flavored jelly beans and give them to you." 

"But now I know about you sinister plan." 

"Oh no!" Fred cried. "Well, I'll just have to think of something equally malevolent, won't I?" He closed his eyes and quickly rolled over. Oliver and George were able to make out a muffled "G'night," before they left. 

As the two boys walked down the hall together, George said, "He really doesn't like being left alone. Madam Pomfrey doesn't get that. The whole twin thing, I mean." 

Oliver could see what he meant. It felt bizarre having only one of the Weasley twins there. "Have you spent the past three days there?" he asked in a slightly disbelieving tone. 

"I've left a couple times. Tried to get _you_ out of your dormitory." He paused for a second. "It's weird. Fred being up there. We do everything together, you know." 

Oliver shrugged. "I can't imagine what that would be like." 

"Well, duh, Oliver, you don't have a twin." 

He glared at George. "I was just giving an appropriate response." 

"I know. You should stop doing that. Say something interesting, Wood. You know, you could be a really cool guy if you weren't such a nutball antisocial." 

"I'm a nutball antisocial, eh?" Oliver gave him a thoughtful look. "Well, there you go. I probably couldn't stand having a twin. Do you find that interesting?" 

"Not particularly." 

George grinned and Oliver rolled his eyes. "What can I say, Weasley. I just prefer my privacy." 

"Yeah, as long as you've got your mini-Quidditch field and tactics notebook." The second-year closed his mouth for a second, then said, "You know what you need, Oliver?" 

"Do I want to know?" 

"Of course, if I'm saying it. Wood, I think you need a girlfriend." 

Oliver gave him an incredulous stare. "What?" 

"Oh, sorry, let me explain. You see, a girl is sort of like a boy, only—" 

"Be quiet. And I don't need a girlfriend." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I don't want one!" 

"Oh, come on. Wouldn't it be great to have someone to make you mad? You could show everyone that you realize there's more to life than winning Quidditch…" George nodded knowingly. "Definitely just the thing you need." 

Oliver had to laugh. "You call _me_ crazy. I'm only fourteen, you know. Don't you consider that a bit young?" 

"I'm only twelve, but I'd love to have some of the girls that follow you around all over me." George grinned. "Didn't notice that, did you?" 

"Someone mentioned something about it." 

"Who?" 

"I don't think you know her." 

"Ooh, it's a girl!" George crowed. "Wood's got a girlfriend; Wood's got a girlfriend!" he sing-songed. 

"Weasley, keep your voice down!" a stern voice commanded from behind them. 

They stopped and turned around. A no-nonsense looking teacher was walking briskly towards them down the hall, her emerald robe billowing behind her. 

"Hello, Professor McGonagall," Oliver said. "We're not skipping class. At least I'm not. George had a good reason for not being in yours, though, I'm sure." 

George opened his mouth to defend himself, but McGonagall waved her hand. "It's all right, Weasley. I've spoken to your teachers. You're excused for today. And yes," she added, as the boy's mouth opened again, "I've also spoken to Madam Pomfrey. You may go back up to your brother." 

"Thanks, Professor," George said. There was a note of poorly disguised gratitude in his tone. 

When George had vanished around a corner, McGonagall turned to Oliver and said, "Wood, I'd like a word with you. Come to my office, please." 

"Did I do something?" 

"No." 

"I'm glad to hear that, at least." 

She opened the door to her office and transfigured a box into a chair. Oliver sat down, and McGonagall took a seat at her desk. "Wood," she began, "you receive excellent marks in Transfiguration." 

He smiled uncertainly. At least he wasn't in trouble, but this was a strange thing to talk to him about. With a nod, he said, "I'm interested in it, Professor. The rest of my family was always transfiguring things." 

"Yes, I remember your brother and sister. They were extremely enthusiastic." Oliver looked down briefly at his lap at the mention of his sister, and McGonagall's expression softened. "Gwen was a fine witch. I was sure she'd…" The teacher sighed. "Well, I was shocked…and saddened, of course, when I heard that she was on of You-Know-Who's victims." She reached across the desk and patted Oliver's hand. "I don't expect that I'll be able to tell you anything comforting that you haven't already heard in the past nine years. That wasn't what I wanted to speak to you about, anyway. As I said, you receive excellent marks. Many people in my class do not." 

Oliver looked up at her. "Do you want me to _tutor_ someone?" 

"I've spoken to several others that are at or near the top of their classes as well, and I almost have enough tutors for my struggling students." She peered at him through her spectacles, waiting for an answer. 

Oliver chewed his lip for a moment and furrowed his brow in thought. After a second, he agreed, "I guess. Who would I be tutoring?" 

McGonagall smiled. "Good. Let's see, who's left…ah, yes. I'd like you to work with Marcus Flint." 

~ 


	2. Chapter 2

"Flint! Can you believe it! Marcus Flint!" Oliver paced around the fourth years' dormitory, an enraged look on his face. "She knows I hate him!" 

A red-haired boy sat on his bed, watching Oliver somewhat blandly. "Quite frankly, I think it's an excellent opportunity for you two to reach an understanding." 

"Understanding?" Oliver exclaimed. "He's an idiot! He's thick as a bloody troll! Who did you get assigned to, if I may ask, Percy?" 

Percy smiled slightly. "Flint looks like a troll, too." It was probably the first joke he'd made in years. "I'm working with Alicia Spinnet. I think you know her…?" 

Rolling his eyes at the Weasley's somewhat pompous tone, Oliver replied, "Yes, I _know_ her. She's one of my reserve Chasers." 

"Ah yes, that's right." 

Oliver continued pacing. Of all the Weasleys that he'd met, Percy was his least favorite. Overbearing and pompous, his goal from the first year onward had been to become Head Boy. He was definitely well on his way. Of course, it wasn't that he _disliked_ Percy—he just would much rather talk to Fred, George, or Charlie. Or the youngest brother—what was his name?—that Fred and George had introduced him to at Platform Nine and three-quarters. 

Percy was talking again. "You know, Oliver, I think this tutoring is just the thing for you. It will take your mind off last Saturday's Quidditch match." 

He stopped walking. "I _had_ stopped thinking about it. Thanks for reminding me." 

"You don't have to be sarcastic," Percy said tartly. 

"You're right. I don't. Sorry." 

"I don't think you are." 

"Are you _trying_ to annoy me?" 

"There, you see? I was right." 

"Fine, you were right! Does that satisfy you?" 

"No. I think I deserve an apology." 

Oliver stared at him incredulously. "Perce, you can be a real pain sometimes!" With that, he stormed out of the dormitory and down the stairs. Hopefully no one would be in the Common Room, though he knew that was far too much to hope for. 

And, of course, he was right. The Common Room was swarming with people. Several girls noticed his presence, looked at each other, and giggled, causing several boys watching them to glare at Oliver. He sighed and trudged to the door; to the blissfully silent hallway. As he emerged from the portrait hole, he heard a voice say, "Well, I guess I just found out where the Gryffindor Common Room is." 

Oliver looked up, dismayed to find someone else who knew whom he was. Sam North was standing there, a slightly amused expression on her face, overlaid with something darker. "I guess you do," he responded in a not altogether nice tone. "If you'll excuse me, I was just trying to get away from everybody." 

"Me too." 

"Well, then, I'll see you later." 

He began walking away, but she called after him in a frustrated voice, "Hey, wait!" Hurried footsteps followed, and when she caught up with him, she demanded, "Do you have a problem with me?" 

"No, I've just been having a very _bad_ several days." 

"Join the club." She sighed. "Is it okay if I walk here? You're not going to throttle me? I kind of need someone friendly at the moment." 

Oliver glanced at her. Her mouth was set in a thin line, and there were dark rings around her eyes. She almost looked like she had been crying, but it was hard to tell. With a tiny puff of breath, he said to her, "Sure, walk here." He paused awkwardly for a moment, then said, "Look, I'm…sorry if I was nasty just now. It's got nothing to do with you. Really," he added at her doubtful look. 

"Good." She kept silent for a minute, then questioned in a slightly embarrassed tone, "Do you have a girlfriend?" 

"What? I mean…er…no, but…" Flustered, he garbled a couple more words completely incoherently before finally choking out, "Why?" 

Sam didn't even seem to have noticed. "I just haven't been getting along with Marcus and I don't know who to talk to. None of the girls in my house have exactly been friendly with me since the two of us started dating. I don't know _why_, I mean, he's not that attractive. You'd think I started going out with Wizarding Weekly's Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year or something the way they act. Like I'm just dating Marcus to spite them or something. They don't know what he sees in me. They either think I'm too bony and anorexic or I'm fat. And of course I'm not pretty. My nose is too long and I don't even _bother_ with any make-up. You know, why would any guy be interested in a girl who spends so little time on her appearance…" 

Oliver was just staring at her. "Well, I…don't have a girlfriend, no," he finally said uncomfortably. 

Smiling, Sam replied, "I didn't think so. Your eyes are looking a bit glazed. Sorry to dump all of that on you. I guess I just kind of hit my limit there. Ugh, they annoy me!" She gave him a meaningful look. "When you _do_ get a girlfriend, Wood, make sure she's not just dating you for the publicity of being with a Quidditch player." 

"Those girls already follow me around everywhere I go," he told her. "There's probably a couple spying on me right now, wondering what I'm doing with some girl from Slytherin." 

"One who doesn't care about Quidditch, at that." 

He gave her a surprised look. "You're dating Flint and you don't even like Quidditch? But…how…" 

"Can't someone not like Quidditch? Well, it's not that I don't like it, it's just that I've got better things to do. Other hobbies, you know." 

"Like what?" 

Sam gave him a wry smile. "Amazing how you can go to school with someone for four years and have absolutely no idea who they are, isn't it?" 

Raising his eyebrows at her, Oliver said, "Well, you _are_ a Slytherin." 

Her good humor abruptly vanished. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?" 

"Well, we're in different houses…" 

"Ah, I see." She folded her arms across her chest. "Not all Slytherins are evil and out to get everybody, okay? I happen to be good friends with several people from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. No Gryffindors. You guys seem to hate us." 

"I didn't mean to offend you." 

"Good." The hard look in her eyes vanished. "No offense taken." She glanced at her watch. "Oh, hey, I've got work. Nice talking to you, as always." 

As she began walking away, Oliver called after her, "Hey, Sam?" She turned around and he continued, "Would you—I don't know—maybe want to hang out sometime? Or something? Maybe go to Hogsmeade?" 

She clasped her hands together and gave him a delighted grin. "Of course! We can talk about it tomorrow in Potions!" With those words, she ran off down the corridor. 

Oliver, so surprised at himself for enjoying the conversation and subsequently inviting another living person on an outing, kept walking and managed to completely forget about his own problems. 

~ 

He was given a reminder the following morning, of course. Marcus Flint was a big problem to forget. Especially when both of the Weasley twins were staring at one, with incredulous expressions on their faces and their mouths hanging open. 

"You're…_tutoring_ Marcus Flint?!" George practically shouted. "But…you're…fraternizing with the enemy!" 

Oliver gave him a withering look. "McGonagall asked me to do this. Maybe you want to scream that in her ear?" 

Fred, finally out of the hospital and perhaps feeling magnanimous for that reason, said, "It's okay, George, after last Saturday I don't think Ollie is exactly anxious to be friends with Flint." 

"Maybe not with _Flint_," a girl's voice interrupted. Angelina Johnson was poking her head into the second year boys' dormitory, a slight smile on her face. 

"What does that mean?" George questioned. 

Suddenly, Fred gasped. "I understand now! Oliver, Snape is your best friend, isn't he? Oh, look what's happened while I've been gone…" 

Angelina flopped down next to Fred and said, "Nope. But he's getting awfully close to Sam North, aren't you, Oliver?" 

"Not really." 

She gave him a nonplussed look. "Everyone's saying you asked her out. I was actually hoping you did." 

Oliver raised his eyebrows at her. "Why?" 

"Because she's Flint's girlfriend and it really would have pissed him off, that's why." She nodded at Fred and George, who were gaping again. "Yep, guys, Wood's been hanging out with Flint's closest minion." 

"No, it's not that," Fred responded. "I'm just so shocked that Oliver would talk to a _girl_…" 

"Shutup, Weasley." Oliver sighed and said, "I just asked her if she wanted to hang out sometime. That's all." 

"Why?" Fred and George questioned simultaneously. 

"I don't know. She's nice." He paused for a moment, then added darkly, "But Flint's probably going to make a bleeding mess out of me." 

"Isn't he usually?" Angelina asked with a smirk. 

"Yeah, but then I've got padding and the entire school watching. I can just see him following me into some secluded hallway that people only wander into about once every two or three weeks…" 

George laughed. "So it'll be that long before somebody finds your broken, bleeding body? Don't worry about it, Ollie." 

"Yeah," Angelina agreed. "I know Sam. I think she's figured out by now that Flint doesn't like us Gryffindors too much. You, especially. I think you _should_ ask her out, Oliver. She's a pretty cool girl, really." 

Shaking his head, Oliver replied, "I don't think so. I'm not interested." 

Angelina shrugged. "Whatever. You would know, wouldn't you?" She turned and ruffled Fred's hair playfully. "So, how's poor little Fred's head? All better? Or are his brains still leaking out through the crack in the back?" 

He swatted at her. "All better, thanks, Angie." 

Oliver got to his feet and started for the door, only turning when Fred asked, "Leaving so soon, Oliver?" 

"If I have to watch you two flirting, yes." 

Angelina stopped poking Fred. "We're not flirting." 

"Yeah," Fred seconded, "girls are gross." 

"Girls are gross? You're the one with cooties." 

As he shut the door behind himself, Oliver actually smiled a little. Only at their juvenile idiocy, of course. He checked his watch and sagged a little—time to meet Flint. 

The library had never seemed so close. Even though he dragged his feet and walked as slowly as possible, Oliver arrived there in what felt like record time. Flint wasn't there yet. Suddenly, it occurred to him that maybe Flint wouldn't ever show up…maybe he was rebellious enough to disobey McGonagall. Flint wasn't the sort of person to have any qualms about passing a class with the lowest marks possible. He was already doing fourth-year Potions over again. 

However, Oliver's day would continue to degrade. At that moment, Flint slouched in, spotted an empty table, and sat down at it. Oliver steeled himself and approached the table. When he set his books down, Flint looked up at him sullenly and said, "It's you." 

Oliver didn't sit down. "Didn't Professor McGonagall tell you?" 

"Yeah. And I told her I wanted a reassignment." 

"Oh." Why hadn't Oliver thought of that? "Tough luck, I guess." Flint glared at him, and he slowly sat down, resigned to his fate. Awkwardly, he questioned, "So, what is it exactly that you need help on? We should probably start where you first started having trouble." 

Flint continued glaring, and just as Oliver began to get so uncomfortable that he was considering bolting from the library, the Slytherin muttered, "Chapter six." 

For a second, the statement didn't register, but then Oliver repeated, "Chapter six? Okay. All right, then. Um." He opened his Transfiguration textbook and flipped to the correct page, then said, "This is organic to inorganic transfiguration. Right?" 

"Yeah, that's it." 

For the next painfully long hour, Oliver attempted to teach Flint, who resisted him at every opportunity. He never once changed the expression on his face—Oliver had to look into his angrily narrowed eyes the whole time. The worst part was that he knew Flint wasn't going to remember any of this. He didn't care. He didn't want to learn, and he _especially_ didn't want to learn from Oliver Wood, possibly his biggest rival in the entire school. 

Finally, Oliver closed the book and stood up. "Well, that's probably enough for today. Um…good work." Flint's expression grew, if possible, angrier. 

Oliver turned and left the library and was almost home free on the stairs when he heard Flint call, "Wood!" 

He turned slowly and watched Flint striding down the hall towards him. It was a mistake, and he knew it immediately. The immediacy came from the fact that when Flint reached him, he raised a huge fist and punched Oliver in the face. 

It wasn't that it hurt, really—he'd probably only have the bruise for a month or two—it was the shock and the force of the blow that sent Oliver reeling against the wall. Flint grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shoved him back against the cold stone. "Stay away from my girlfriend," he growled. "She doesn't need some scum-faced Gryffindor standing her up." 

Oliver pushed Flint away. "Don't you mean _you_ don't need someone threatening your…" Seeing the fury in Flint's eyes, he trailed off and attempted to escape from the boy's trollish clutches. "I think Sam's old enough to make her own decisions." He started up the stairs, leaving Marcus glaring. 

"If you touch her, I'll kill you," Flint yelled up at him. 

Oliver stopped and leaned over the railing. "She's yours, Flint, okay? All yours!" With those words, he stormed the rest of the way up the stairs. Halfway to the Common Room, he realized that that was the last place he wanted to go, and he whirled around in the middle of the corridor. What he needed was a broomstick. To avoid Flint, he took a different staircase to reach the main doors and made his way down to the Quidditch pitch. There, he grabbed a broom, a chest of practice Quidditch balls, and a Beater's club. All he really cared about at the moment was hitting things. Really hard. 

He released the Bludgers and took to the air, swinging at the vicious balls as they flew at him. For over half an hour, he smashed them back and forth across the pitch, until suddenly, one of them slammed into him from behind. The surprise of it knocked him from his broom to the grass below, and for a moment, he just laid on the ground. After awhile, he sat up and pounded the ground with his fist, which did nothing except give him a sore hand. He growled in frustration. 

It was so stupid! So incredibly, astoundingly, mind-bogglingly stupid! Why did morons like Flint end up with the cool girls? Why did girls like Sam put up with them? Oliver couldn't believe the nerve of that troll, telling him he couldn't be friends with a girl—just because she happened to be his girlfriend! Did Sam even realize what a boorish chauvinist she was dating? Did she realize that there were _nice_ guys out there? Guys who didn't care if their girlfriends had _other_ friends of the opposite sex? Guys who weren't sexist, Victorian idiots? 

Oliver realized he'd been pacing and stopped abruptly, as much to let his anger die down as anything. Think about this logically, he told himself. He wasn't going to stay away from Sam. She was the first friend he'd made in years. He found himself able to talk to her almost as well as he could talk to Fred and George… Well, maybe not that well. She was still female, and Oliver still was, while not exactly shy of girls, a bit awkward around them. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie he could handle—they were just jocks. But Sam was definitely a girl, and someone he couldn't talk Quidditch with. There was just something about her that he liked. 

But he didn't like her in _that_ way. Sam was nice, and she was smart, and pretty, he supposed, but he could sense absolutely no feelings beyond friendship within himself. It was just all of Flint's control-freak stupidity and Angelina's talk about asking her out that had gotten him thinking like that. Oliver figured if he was going to be attracted to anybody, it should be the Head Girl, who practically every boy at Hogwarts was obsessed with. Sam was pretty, but she couldn't compare with tall, leggy, and curvaceous. Oliver sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with him, or if maybe he just…didn't like girls, but always rejected the idea. If he was gay, then he hadn't met any male that he was attracted to, either. 

Sam North was raising problems that he had never foreseen when he asked to copy her notes. 

~ 


	3. Chapter 3

Hogsmeade weekend eventually came, a month later, and while Oliver hadn't actually been avoiding Sam for that entire month, Marcus Flint's almost constant presence by her side had made it difficult to talk to her. The tutoring, oddly enough, had continued, but it had done very little good for Flint. The palpable hatred between the two boys basically neutralized any kind of help Oliver may have been able to give. The Gryffindor figured Flint would fail—if not this year, then next—and that was an unpleasant thought, as it would put the two of them in the same year. 

So when it came time for third-years and above to leave the castle for Hogsmeade, Oliver remained down in the Great Hall, picking at his breakfast among the first and second years. He barely noticed a voice asking him nervously, "Oliver Wood?" 

He looked down at a small Asian girl, who was staring at him with an enraptured look in her eyes. "Hello," he said to her. She looked like a first year, but he had no idea of her name or what house she was in. 

"I'm Cho." She stuck out her hand and didn't wait for him to do the same, she just grasped his and shook it. "I've wanted to play Quidditch for _years_ and you guys are good. Well, Slytherin's better but none of them are very nice so I thought I'd talk to you and see if you could help me because I'm going to try out for the team next year and I really really _really_ want to make it--" 

Oliver laughed and replied, "Sure, I'll help. Cho, you said? You must be in…" 

"Ravenclaw." 

"Well, I'm down on the pitch every Sunday morning. You can come down any time you want." 

Her eyes grew wide. "Wow, thanks! I'll be there!" 

She bolted off, no doubt to tell all her friends, and Oliver kept smiling for awhile after she'd left. However, as the Great Hall emptied completely of people, his good mood faded and he got up slowly to go back up to the Common Room. He'd sit with Fred and George for awhile and see what the next prank they were planning for Snape was, maybe… 

"Oliver?" 

He froze and turned to see Sam standing behind him, an uncertain look on her face. "Oh—hi," he greeted awkwardly. 

"Hi." She paused and cleared her throat, then asked, "I thought we were going to Hogsmeade?" 

"Well, I thought…I mean, I just figured that you and Marcus…were…um…going." Oliver wished he could smack his forehead. He always sounded like such an idiot to himself in situations like this. 

"I said I didn't want to." Her eyes flicked to the floor. "We kind of had a fight. I told him it would be nice if he'd just leave me alone once in awhile." 

"Oh. I'm…sorry, I guess. That's no good." 

Sam abruptly met his eyes. "Look, Oliver, I'm really sorry. I know something happened. I don't know what, and I don't expect you to tell me, but I know that Marcus said something to you, and…well…I just want you to know that I want to be friends with you. I'm not going to let my boyfriend stand there and tell me who I can hang out with and who I can't. Just because you beat him at Quidditch, that shouldn't mean that we can't be friends. Because…I think you're a pretty cool guy, and I'd like to get to know you. I think you'd have a lot of interesting things to say if only you'd speak up more." She offered him a shy smile. "I mean it, really." 

Oliver was staring at her. "I know you mean it. I don't see any reason why we can't be friends. Well, not any good reason. And, er.." He grinned sheepishly. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you." 

"No, I can understand. It was kind of hard to get near me with Marcus there all the time. And I figured you didn't want another black eye." 

"Oh. That." 

"Yeah, that." 

The two of them stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say to each other, before Oliver started, "So…" 

Sam smiled. "So." 

"Want to go to Hogsmeade?" 

"Didn't I already say so?" 

"I guess you did." 

"Then let's go. I'll buy you a butterbeer." 


End file.
